Tetrafied

 

Tetrafied

 

Alice knew as soon as he entered the bar she would be leaving with him that night. His beautiful olive skin and inky-black hair called out—like a siren—to her womanly desires. His indigo eyes locked on Alice’s, and he took the seat next to her. “Hi, I’m Jack. Let me buy you a drink,” he said, immediately summoning the bartender’s attention. 

After just two Martinis, Alice found herself linking arms with Jack and leaving the bar. As they climbed into a taxi, her stomach somersaulted. She hesitated, contemplating what she was about to do. She had never picked up a guy in a bar before. That was an occupation of the beautiful and confident; not Alice. With mousy-brown hair and pale blue eyes, she was too plain to ever attract someone at first sight. At least, that was what her mother told her.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she followed Jack along the rocky stone path to his front door. The house loomed high over them, casting a long shadow in the moonlight. A small flower garden alongside the path looked well-kept. Surprisingly so, for a single man in his twenties.

The old, wooden front door creaked as it welcomed them inside. In contrast to the aged exterior, the heart of the house was light and contemporary. Before Alice had even noticed Jack was missing, he returned; hands carrying more Martinis.

As they settled on the cream leather sofa, they began to explore each other. Their mouths locked and their bodies entwined. The electricity was sharp and Alice could feel herself start to let go. Then she saw it. Oh no. A wave of nausea flooded her bloodstream. 

“Fish!” she yelled, “I hate fish. Oh my God, they’re staring at me!”

Surprised, but wanting to reassure her, Jack said, “It’s okay. They’re not looking at you. They’re Mexican Tetra fish; they have no eyes.” 

But Alice didn’t hear. Throwing open the front door, she ran as fast as her feet would carry her. I’m never picking up a one night stand again, she thought, as she rounded the corner onto her own street.

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Busted!

Busted!

Ed’s car is in the garage already. That means I’ll have to be quiet. I prise open our front door and hold my breath, listening for an indication of his whereabouts. I take off my shoes and creep along the hardwood floor. No sign of him downstairs, so I take the risk. I have no choice. It’s calling me. I open the pink cardboard box, and the intoxicating, sweet scent fills my world. The first bite of crumbly, chocolatey heaven-sent cake explodes in my mouth. “Nicki,” I suddenly hear, “What happened to the diet?”

 

• This is my attempt to write micro fiction. It’s 95 words long. So much harder to write than you would think.

Have You Lost Your Mind?

I wrote this in response to a flash fiction prompt to use the title ‘Have You Lost Your Mind?’

 

 

A I creep around the side of the building, I’m surprised at how little security there is. One guard. Marcus said he has a penchant for hard liquor. I just need to wait until he’s asleep.

It doesn’t take long. I creep towards the old metal door and dig into my pocket to pull out the instructions. There are no lights surrounding the doorway itself, only a large, menacing security camera.

I tug at my hood, pulling it over my head and re-read the door code. My breaths stall as I wait to gain entry. Almost instantly, the door welcomes me in. I pull the bandana over my mouth and nose, and claustrophobia overwhelms me. But I have no choice. The consequence of being caught is death. That’s what Marcus said.

The building smells of chemicals. It makes me gag as it penetrates my scarf. I glance once more at the instructions.

Even though I have learnt them verbatim, I can’t unscramble the tangle of words inside my head. I need to read from the paper. The building is a mass of corridors that threaten to hold me hostage. I mustn’t get lost in here. When I’m certain I’ve found the right direction, I start jogging.

Sweat covers my body, and I’m not sure whether it’s from exertion or fear. It must be a couple of miles of corridor before I reach my destination.

I’m in. I gasp at all the jars on the shelves. Each one is labelled with the names of the unfortunate souls they once inhabited. I’ll never find my mother’s. I search the labels, repulsed by the grey walnuts of humankind. The door creaks, and I spin around.

“What you doing here?” the tipsy security guard says.

I gulp, unable to answer. He speaks again, “Have you lost your mind? Is it in one of these jars?”

“No,” I say. “I—I’m looking for my mother’s.”

“Your mother’s? Oh, I see. We can’t let her down, now, can we? What’s her name?”

Stunned by his response, I grapple for the name I’ve spoken with love for the last forty-two years. “Marian Gilmore,” I say and wait.

“Gilmore,” he says, rubbing his chin like a wise old sage. “I’ll take the far side; you start from here.” He motions to a stack of jars at least ten high. He must see the panic on m face because he adds, “Don’t worry, Missy. We’ll get her back.”

Zombie In The Kitchen

 

A 100 word story . . .

It was the smell Keira noticed first: like a rotting mouse under the floorboards. Pungent wafts of air wrapped themselves around her throat, making her gag.

Working in a soup kitchen, she encountered many people with hygiene issues, but this took it to another level. As she turned to face the poor soul in need of nourishment, she froze. Her jaw dropped and the pot she was holding crashed to the floor.

Open sores and rotting flesh lurched forward, and the bite, when it came, delivered warm darkness. When light returned, all that mattered was finding her next meal.